


Paint the Town Red

by ossapher



Series: The Macaroniverse -- Lams Modern AU [4]
Category: American Revolution RPF
Genre: Henry Laurens is a terrible parent, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Self-Discovery, a happy story, freshman year of college, in which John Laurens is very gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 03:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7342603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John Laurens fails a spot check and gets his first ever boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint the Town Red

**Author's Note:**

> Some facts about Francis Kinloch:  
> \-- He was John's age, and from South Carolina  
> \-- They met while they were studying abroad in Geneva, Switzerland  
> \-- They [exchanged some letters that were pretty warm](http://john-laurens.tumblr.com/post/145777622748/john-laurens-and-francis-kinloch) (link to john-laurens tumblr post)

Jack — strike that, John — John fucking loves college. His dad and his little sister dropped him off all of a week ago, but already he feels like a whole different person. Maybe it's just the change of place. Or the eyebrow piercing he just got. Or the fact that he  _ made out with a dude yesterday holy shit! _

It wasn’t like he walked into the Welcome Luau thinking,  _ yep, tonight’s the night _ . He hadn’t, for example, gotten shitfaced on scotch the way he had after junior prom. In fact, he’d only had a couple beers. But he’d been wearing his nice jeans and very aware of how they showed off his ass and he’d caught this guy  _ looking _ and their eyes had met and… Yeah. And John supposes maybe he should be terrified right now? Or disgusted with himself? Or surprised at how much he liked it?

He’s none of those things. He’s just… enjoying the fact that he finally knows for sure. All those years of guiltily suspecting himself, all those years of thinking it was just a phase, or that it was normal to look at other guys like that, or that it was okay if it was just this one guy, and maybe another, and, okay, Harrison Ford too, sure, who wouldn’t — come on, man, Harrison Ford…

Yeah. He’s really, really gay, isn’t he?

Which is not to say he’s waltzing in the door of the LGBT Center any time soon. Or joining any of the half-dozen student organizations dedicated to various sexuality-related things. It would be just like his dad to stalk John on the Internet — actually, no, he’d have a staffer do it for him — and John would really, really rather not be outed like that. Or at all, at least right now. 

But he  _ will  _ join as many liberal organizations as he can at this massive freshman club fair. He’s got a bundle of flyers in his hands from the ACLU and Amnesty International and a girl who wants to reclaim leftover food from the dining halls and the fossil fuel divestment campaign and he’s about to sign up for every intramural sport there is when  _ that’s him that’s the guy that’s the guy! _

He’s wearing a red T-shirt, manning a table that’s stashed in a desolate corner behind the giant College Democrats of America booth. John shoulders his way through the eager crowd, excitement fluttering in the pit of his stomach. Once he arrives, though, he has the guy all to himself.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless, and then realizes he has no idea what he wants to say next. He’s never done this kind of thing before.

The guy gives him a broad smile, probably ready to launch into a pitch about whatever club he’s representing, when the look freezes on his face. “Oh,” he says, and over the next few seconds a flush spreads from his neck to the roots of his hair. “Hello, I, um. Sorry, wow. Uh, context, I grew up in rural Alabama, I'm not really used to dudes, uh, saying hi — " He visibly resets himself and thrusts out a hand. "Francis Kinloch. Nice to meet you."

John smiles and offers his hand in return. Francis has a decent handshake — maybe his grip's a little awkward, but then again he's clearly flustered. "Hi. I'm Ja — I'm John."

“John. Is that a southern accent I hear?”

“South Carolina.”

“We’re gonna set each other off, I can hear mine getting thicker already.”

“Does that mean you plan on us... talking further?” John asks, and mentally high-fives himself. That was pretty suave.

“I’d be all right with that,” Francis drawls.

"Is there a way I can, uh, get in touch?"

"Sign your name on the dotted line," Francis says, cocking an eyebrow and handing over his laptop, and John happily enters his contact information. He notices that hardly anyone else has signed up, and feels a pang of sympathy. They’re in the section for political clubs — Francis is wearing red — poor guy’s probably from one of those little leftist factions John’s dad is always mocking, the kind that argue among themselves about exactly what utopia would look like while meanwhile the two-party system steamrolls all over democracy without them. Francis must be a real idealist, someone committed to his beliefs. John admires that.

***

When he checks his email later there's about twenty new messages from all the clubs he's joined and will, he decides rapidly, have to prune by about 50% if he's going to survive the semester. But one catches his eye. The sender is Francis Kinloch. He clicks on it and reads with increasing confusion.

_ 2010 midterms _ , it reads,  _ ARE YOU IN? _

John reads through the list of candidates he's supposed to be making calls on behalf of with increasing confusion. He knows these names. He's had awkward family brunch with some of these names. These are all —

John's so horrified, he actually flings himself directly into his bed, like that will somehow push the reset button on the day. A moment later, the irony of the situation hits him, and he dissolves into hysterical, hiccuping giggles with the occasional  _ fuck!  _ thrown in for good measure. Once he recovers, he sits back up, gulping deep breaths and letting out the occasional nervous laugh. Then he retrieves his laptop from his desk and begins a careful reply.

_ Hey Francis, _

_ Glad to have your email address. Now that we're corresponding, do you want to grab lunch tomorrow?  _

_ I do want to clear up a small misunderstanding _ _ — _ _ totally my fault. I'm sure you're an excellent club president and you do look great in red, but I do not, in fact, wish to join the Young Republicans. _

**Author's Note:**

> Some more facts about Francis Kinloch:  
> \-- He was, at least at the beginning of the Revolution, a Tory


End file.
